Room 315: A Stephanie Tale Pt. 01

Room 315 -- A Stephanie Tale

© William D'Ark 2022

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Lie to me, deceive me, f ucking with my head

Lurid love is a potent drug pulling me to your bed.

Your vampire-manner wears me down

Though the clothing you pull away, revealing,

Blinds me, thrills and frees me.

Oh, I am lost, a yearling never to be found.

Reason shouts out -- Flee!

But longing w eighs like chains.

My gathered strength is useless, consumed

In your fierce bright flame.

That look, that predatory grin..?

Calls to me like agony dissolving my skin

'Till, pain no more, I'm hidden in your sin.

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Stephanie was finishing her makeup.

She had chosen a bloodmoon shade of lipstick to contrast with the multi-colored, hibiscus patterned, wrap-around skirt pulled from the closet just after her shower.

Topping the skirt was a deeply scooped black crepe top form fit to her ribs with a broad elastic band. The top's décolletage was loose, plunging low to reveal a portion of the wide areolas that capped braless breasts swaying to-and-fro. The thin material revealed the exact position and topography of pierced nipples tipping the heavy breasts barely covered below.

Perfect to suit her smoldering mood.

The areolas were nearly the same color as the rest of Stephanie's breast flesh, transitioning from desert sand to pale chestnut shades. So it took a discerning eye to see that the scoop-front top was bucking convention, maybe even breaking local ordinances, since it exposed lots of three-inch wide areolas.

Stephanie's retracted nipples lay flat against her skin unless she was aroused. Till she reached legal age, when she decided that piercings would give them more definition. She wanted the nipples to stand out and be seen. This required careful shopping for an artist who knew how to penetrate the actual base of each teat. Metal bars placed there would lift the nipple flesh during the rare occasions when she wasn't feeling sexual and the hard points gave her away.

The day of the piercing she wore the lightest weight sleeveless top she owned. She had chosen an artist who, the week before, had pulled the cotton top over her head -- before she even knew what was happening -- to determine where that nipple-breast boundary really was. He used forceps to distend the teat outwards where he circled the margin with his forefinger. She had nearly swooned, pressing together her thighs to hold back an orgasm.

She just didn't know the man that well.

On piercing day he once again pulled on each nipple, using gloved fingers to stroke the skin, applying a topical gel, a pain killer, right before pushing the needle through. She had hissed each time the needle popped the thick nipple skin -- reacting more to the sound than the pain.

Then she had laughed when it was over. The plyers, his fingers, the gel... the crunching sensation in that sensitive area, had almost made her cum again.

Maybe next time I see him, she thought.

She was proud to walk home that day, breasts wagging beneath the airy sleeveless top. She was showing side boobs and, in the front, tight, metal-bearing nipples.

There was even a touch of blood on the cotton at the end of her walk. To mark the day, she decided.

Before the nipples had healed she found herself shopping for thicker bars and wider jeweled ends. It was only a matter of time before she leveled up to three millimeter caps and fourteen gauge stainless steel bars.

Or maybe gold, if Sir was in the right mood.

She liked that there was no clear boundary between her breasts and their areolas. She deliberately wore open front tops and swimsuits that challenged the norm, dropping far lower in front than was the convention. She hoped people would stare and wonder... what's this..? Is she showing...? Shouldn't she cover up more; why that's indecent.

Better still, she hoped they would stare and imagine fucking her. Making her cum.

With the stainless steel bars between their teeth... ssss...

The nipples were a not-so-secret erogenous zone Stephanie had carefully cultivated since high school. They responded to hands, lips, tongues, teeth and toys of many different tastes. Her wide, pear-shaped breasts invited fondling and nipple play. Cocks at her breasts could make her cum. Titty fucks led to lots of juices running, his and hers. But even a foreskin dragged back and forth across the sensitive pierced teats would take her into a series of small, low orgasms.

A man's expressions were just so fucking gorgeous to watch; forget the electricity running straight to her cunt!

Exposing her breasts in public... or surrendering to Sir's commands to show them off? That too would bring generous amounts of cream oozing between pouty thick labia.

The exhibitionist in her was thrilled to show; it made her feelings soar -- almost as much as sex itself.

The wrap-around hibiscus skirt had a scalloped front panel she liked to loosely tie. This allowed plenty of leg to show when she walked or sat down -- perfect for showing an inner thigh or, if she wanted to lure a cock, her freshly shaven pussy. Tonight she let the cord drape especially low to match the crescent shaped line of the belly-baring crepe top. This exposed a generous field of rounded tummy flesh, gleaming lily white between the top's elastic band and the skirt's black background graced with scarlet and tangerine flowers.

Stephanie's shadowy navel -- another erogenous zone -- peeked out at the nadir of the skirt's pirate-like swathe. This would invite more stares and, she hoped, clandestine fantasies. She could cum from there too -- the naval -- in the right circumstances. Held down, a man's low voice in her ear... his cock pricking the shallow bowl as if it would run her straight through...

Yeah, that could make her grunt-cum. She swallowed hard from the memory, feeling the hair on her neck prickle.

Breasts, nipples and navel were all on display tonight. Thighs and pussy crying out for it too. Exposure.

Oh, she was in a mood.

The darker toned lipstick, not quite the same shade as the skirt but in the same family... would bring people's gaze to her mouth. Exotic, Egyptian-kohl mascara highlighted her eyes. The night-black brows she had drawn were arched, their edges disappearing into curly blonde bangs framing her face. Eyelids had been brushed a subdued crimson to match the skirt. The hint of blush swiped across her cheeks was... pussy colored.

Her own particular hue.

She wondered if anyone would get close enough to make that comparison tonight. She was a bachelorette on the town. Time to herself while Sir was traveling. In a tie-me-down-and-fuck-me mood.

Her cunt had been humming since breakfast, calling for her own hands and fingers if no one else would volunteer. It would be hard not to play with it while she was spying victims sitting at the bar. But that was part of the plan. Or at least an acceptable alternative. Masturbating in public, discretely, was another secret thrill.

What wicked things can I get away with, she found herself wondering.

...Things that didn't violate the Rules.

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Sir's recent plan for that part of her anatomy... his 'pussy preparation program'... had been in place for a while now. It was a mirror of the anal training he had engineered for her earlier. The outcome of those exercises had been straightforward. She now considered herself an anal slut... craving the feeling of cocks or toys inside there just as much the hand-smacking, flogging, crop-stopping crying out she did when Sir or one of their friends played with her broad bare bottom.

I want any of that tonight... ALL of that!

She was Sir's slut in every way, simple as that. Her ass belonged to him. Her cunt. Her mouth. He owned all her parts. But the pussy needed to be trained too, he had insisted.

At first she couldn't imagine why. She was already quite happy with her sex. It responded well, came quickly, and was pretty to look at.

How she loved showing it off when doing so brought so many shocked smiles and randy compliments.

She had always been generous with her sex but spent years exploring the range of sensations there just for her own satisfaction. Self-pleasure. Masturbation. She wanted to be so skilled at self-pleasure she could win a Sex Olympics. She thought she knew everything there was to know about grooming it, dressing it, showing it off, happily sharing it and...most important of all... cumming from, truly, the core of her being. At home, at work, in the car, theaters, restaurants and bars...

Like the Red Tavern at the downtown Diamond Hotel...

Her pussy was already so good to her.

Sir begged to differ. Her pussy needed many weeks' work to expand the range of sensations. Shorten the response time. Broaden its availability. He wanted his pussy to be hair-trigger ready to cum, available anytime, anywhere, for anyone that suited his interests. He wanted them to enjoy it as much as he did. As much as he wanted her to enjoy showing it off and sharing it, didn't matter with whom -- strangers, friends... sometimes even relatives...

Mhm.

Stephanie blushed at those memories too.

So Sir instructed her exactly how to begin pussy training.

She was to start with more fingering of the vulva. Around the entryway and up deep inside. He taught her to spend long hours, especially before bed, caressing the clit and all its delicate parts -- the hood, the bulb and stem. There were secret glans to be touched, inside and out.

All the sensitive spots needed fine tuning.

She wasn't allowed to cum, but was encouraged to follow the changes in heart rate, breathing, the colors erupting behind her eyelids -- those kinds of things -- while teasing and pleasing her pussy parts, their pussy parts -- for hours at a time.

He would read a book, watch a movie or ball game while Stephanie did her 'homework.' Every now and then he would interrupt her, sliding between her legs to demonstrate a more delicate this, a firmer that, rubbing and stroking and sliding things in and out, making her fidget, squirm and whine.

She could not cum, after all, during pussy training.

He bought her a vaginal hook, diamond shaped on the outside so it laid just right atop her clit, letting the bulb poke through to be stimmed from the top while the polished metal licked the clit's base.

How does he know these things, she asked herself, trying it on.

The hook curled up inside the passageway holding itself in place between the clit and her pubic bone as if it had been laser scanned for her. The flat internal metal pad, smoothly milled and polished like chrome, was centered in the exact spot she loved for hands and cocks and toys to discover.

The fucking, ohmygod G-spot.

Stephanie paused her preparations. That thought -- all the G-spot memories -- cried out for cumming.

Almost but not quite. She wanted to do it in public. Wanted to be fucked and cry out from it.

Damn... she wanted to go! Get out of this apartment! Scour the town for that one guy...

One? Hmm...

The hook was that carefully crafted because it was meant to be inside her for hours at a time. At work, for example, making her absolutely crazy to cum -- sometimes at the most inconvenient times. Like when she would give a presentation to her employees.

She knew they would already be undressing her with their eyes, till she was an imaginary naked girl giving remarks or gesturing at Powerpoint slides. Did they also need the subliminal signals that almost-cumming sent their way? The pussy scents? The subtle hip movements? Her quick breathing and flushed cheeks? The stiff nipples poking out like the tips of Nike rockets beneath her bra?

Sometimes showing the bars too, depending on the top... My pierced fucking nipples... How do you like THAT my pretties...

She had nearly lost self-control on four occasions wearing the damned (delicious) thing, bracing herself against a podium and flexing PVC muscles to keep the pulses and waves to a minimum at least... oh my god... while lecturing on new product lines and sales forecasts.

Sir has such an evil streak.

She didn't have to wear the Hook all the time -- bless Sir for that consideration. But she had become so addicted to it she couldn't imagine living without it. Movies, museums and galleries... just walking the dog... she had drenched her clothing or felt the juice run down bare legs on all those occasions.

Her hypothalamus... floating in blissful cum-causing hormones... had to be a daily thing.

Um, ok, an hourly thing.

Cumming. A way of life. A constant craving, to Sir's satisfaction.

Moreso hers, she admitted. He had just cultivated that in her. Like with the pussy training.

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The Hook was different from the pussy plug he had given her when they first met.

The plug installed so easily; why it just slipped inside, simple as that, wet as she usually was. And once inside it stretched the vaginal walls wide while the rounded pointy metal tip pushed against the cervix, stopping her in her tracks time to time so she would not jet-cum in some embarrassing way, splattering juice at her feet with other people nearby. Later, in a more controlled setting, she might sit on a hard surface -- a bench or unpadded chair -- fucking herself with the Plug till she was so faint from the ecstasy crowding her brain, it became hard to even sit upright.

If magick was real, she felt as if she could shoot bolts from the tips of her fingers, cumming so hard for so long.

Sir says magick IS real. Can I really shoot bolts when I get like this? Hmm...

Then there were the days when Sir's cruel streak would be up and he would insist that she wear both the Hook and the Plug.

He delighted in slipping them into place himself before she walked out the door for work or to go shopping. Stephanie never wore panties; Sir didn't allow it. Plus, pffftt... they just got in the way. Or soaked up her juice like a sponge. She was always wet; both of them knew it. But Sir used the excuse of checking to flip all the right switches before sending her out the door.

She would bend over the arm of the couch and lift her dress from behind. Sir would run his fingers up and down the crack, ass to clit and back, making sure she was everywhere-wet to start her day.

On those cruel-streak days she could hardly stand the tension from having both heavy metal items buried in her pussy, working her, working her, whether sitting, walking or standing still. It didn't matter how often she wore them together, she never got 'used to it' -- the clever, dancing sensations alive in her cunt. Her body was wired so that orgasmic energy shot thru her with such force she sometimes had to stand quietly, gripping a railing or the back of a chair to keep her balance. How could that ever get boring? Predictable? Undesirable?

As pussy training continued she noticed the cumming seemed to get ever-stronger. Opposite from a drug, where increasing amounts had diminishing effects; the more sex she had the more her body produced its own drug cocktail -- oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins, along with a host of less understood but equally yummy neurotransmitters -- making her cumming easier and more intense.

Causing her fingertips, nipples and eyes to spit-fire energy. Causing buckets of juice to flow.

Many times she couldn't make it to her office wearing both plugs at once. Driving into town, her dress all the way up in her lap... thighs apart...

As Sir desires, my pussy will be on display for other drivers to see. I will not cover up. I will touch and tease. I will let them watch. If they are so lucky.

...she would unconsciously roll her hips back and forth or press-and-release her thighs, building the sensations to such intensity she knew it would be her undoing if staff and visitors were nearby.

On those two-plug days she would go downtown and find a comfy spot at the library where she could set up her laptop and work online. The padded library seat might be soaked by lunchtime, certainly by quitting time, but that was not her problem to solve.

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Worst of all, there were times when she needed correction. Realignment. Maybe even a punishment.

Sir would spank her as she bent over the couch before leaving the house. Her cheeks would burn and her cunt buzz as he inserted the Hook, the pussy plug, and the polished, ribbed, stainless steel anal plug he had given her on her birthday.

He would raise her up from the couch, smooth down her dress, give her a long, tongue-filled kiss then send her on her way with a final spank.

Nearly delirious, those days she would have to brush back tears before she could function. She would always recall his words, climbing into her car...

Punishments are about pleasure too. They advance your training by mixing pleasure and pain -- at some new level. But punishments are so challenging you will decide to behave correctly for me rather than choose the punishment.

The Three Penetration Punishment always did the trick. She behaved.

Funny how these memories pop up on the night I'm on my own, she thought, finishing her preparations.

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She gave her thick honey-blonde hair a final tousle and turned from the mirror.

Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she pushed aside a stack of folded satin chemises to find the slender sequined clutch purse she liked to carry on nights out. Opening the snap closure, she popped in a set of keys, two hundred dollars cash, a Visa card and her cell phone. A rust colored shawl was the final accessory in case the Tavern was too well air conditioned. She plucked a pair of black frame glasses from her dresser top, replacing the amber frames she normally wore. Finally, she was ready to go.

Fuck! My collar!

It lay on top of her dresser, open, sad looking, like a musical instrument that wasn't being played.

She had taken it off during her shower so the black leather wouldn't get waterlogged. Picking it up... lovingly... she fastened it tight around her neck. The patterned steel beads glimmered in the dresser mirror. If she had forgotten that... oh Lord... she would have to confess it. Who knows what kind of punishment would follow.

Black collar, black frames, coal-black make up at her eyes... Black top, black patterned skirt...

Showing lots of skin and promising more...

There... she thought. Now I'm complete.

She was the town's demonic succubus for the evening, her own private fantasy.

'For waking men, that is,' she added with a sly grin. The sleepers? They would never have her.

Muahaha...

She stepped into the adjoining bathroom and opened the cabinet door. The ridged anal plug stood at attention on the second shelf. She realized it had been calling to her. She spat on it, lifted a foot to the toilet seat, rolled back the wrap-around skirt, reached behind and slipped it inside....slowly... feeling... the pressure... b u i l d...

Dropping her foot to the floor, she shimmied her hips, settling the plug into place. A pulse began... connecting her coccyx to her brain with a gentle, persistent pounding at her temples.

Moisture gathered at the edges of her eyes. Goddd....

How long can I go like this without soaking my dress?

She grabbed two square, sealed packets from the middle shelf -- ultrathins -- and slid them into the handbag.